e from
the reproach of what is so forcibly termed "blood-money."

"Come over to me this evening," said Father Rush; and they were the
only words of comfort I heard from any side. "Come over to me about six
o'clock, Con, for I want to speak to you."

They were long hours that intervened between that and six. I could not
stay in the town, where every one I met had some sneer or scoff against
me; I could not go home, I had none! and so I wandered out into the open
country, taking my course towards a bleak common, about two miles off,
where few, if any one, was like to be but myself.

This wild and dreary tract lay alongside of the main road to Athlone,
and was traversed by several footpaths, by which the country people were
accustomed to make "short cuts" to market, from one part of the road to
another; for the way, passing through a bog, took many a winding turn as
the ground necessitated.

There is a feeling of lonely desolation in wide far-stretching wastes
that accords well with the purposeless vacuity of hopelessness; but,
somehow or other, the very similitude between the scene without and the
sense of desolation within, establishes a kind of companionship. Lear
was speaking like a true philosopher when he uttered the words, "I like
this rocking of the battlements."

I had wandered some hours "here and there" upon the common; and it
was now the decline of day when I saw at a little distance from me the
figure of a young man whose dress and appearance bespoke condition,
running along at a brisk pace, but evidently laboring under great
fatigue.

The instant he saw me he halted, and cried out, "I say, my boy, is that
Kilbeggan yonder, where I see the spire?"

"Yes, sir."

"And where is the high-road to Athlone?"

"Yonder, sir, where the two trees are standing."

"Have you seen the coach pass,--the mail for Athlone?"

"Yes, sir, she went through the town about half an hour ago."

"Are ye certain, boy? are ye quite sure of this?" cried he, in a voice
of great agitation.

"I am quite sure, sir; they always change horses at Moone's
public-house; and I saw them 'draw up' there more than half an hour
since."

"Is there no other coach passes this road for Dublin?"

"The night mail, sir, but she does not go to-night; this is Saturday."

"What is to be done?" said the youth, in deep sorrow; and he seated
himself on a stone as he spoke, and hid his face between his hands.

As he sat thus, I had time to mark h